


The Nine Lives of Peeta Mellark

by laughingenigma



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-18 21:54:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingenigma/pseuds/laughingenigma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of the nine most important moments for Peeta in The Hunger Games, from the moment he first fell in love to the moment he realized it had all been a lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kindergarten

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this story about three years ago and posted it on fan fiction.net, but I've decided to edit/rewrite it and post an updated version over here. 
> 
> I'm only taking what I felt like were the 9 most important moments for Peeta in The Hunger Games. There will also be a sequel for Catching Fire and Mockingjay.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy :)

 

Kindergarten

I bounced on the balls of my feet in anticipation, already waiting at the front door for my father, though school didn't start for another hour. "Father!" I called out impatiently, then strained my ears to hear the dull thump of his steps that told me he was on his way.

"Hold your horses, Peeta!" he laughed as he made his way down the staircase. "No one will be there at this hour!"  
I knew he was right--the sun had barely risen over the battered structures of District 12--but I didn’t care. It was my first day of school--something I had been looking forward to for as long as I could remember. My oldest brother was already in school when I was born, and the other started just last year. I remember the intense jealously that flooded me when my father brought home a new book bag for him, filled with a notebook and four still unsharpened pencils. Now, with my own book bag slung around my shoulder, I was alight with pride and anticipation for the exciting adventure I thought kindergarten would be.  


Not to mention the fact the school meant five hours of the day that I was out of the house and out of the reach of my mother's hand.

My father regarded me for a moment with a small smile, the chuckled again. "Alright, Peeta. You're so eager, there’s no point in keeping you here, though your brothers won't even be awake for another half hour!" He reached out for my hand, and I clutched his as if it were the only thing tethering me to the earth.  
In the crisp late-summer air, the sounds of morning were just starting as we made our way down the cracked street to the school. Though it was one of the nicest buildings in the district, the dilapidated old building looked close to crumbling. Still, to me it was beautiful. I ran my fingers against the uneven bricks, so excited to finally be there that I didn’t even care that my father was right, and we were the first ones there. My father leaned against the wall, and I joined him, trying to mimic his easy and confident stance as we waited. It took about twenty minutes for more people to start coming: parents dragging children, children leading parents, siblings racing, all together.  


She came alone.  


My father pointed her out for me as she walked up the path from the Seam. He tapped my shoulder and gestured in her direction, bringing to my full attention the little girl in the red plaid dress. Her hair was done in two simple braids that she kept pulling nervously.  


"See that little girl?" my father asked me, and waited for me to nod. His voice was soft, the same tone as when he used to tell me stories before I fell asleep. "I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner."  


I jerked my head toward my father, his revelation startling me out of my reverie. I couldn't understand how anyone could have _not_ wanted my father. Chock it up to boyhood idolization, but still. My father was handsome enough, and I assumed he had been even handsomer before three kids and ten years with my mother. He was well off, as far as District 12 goes, and an undeniably kind man.  


"A coal miner?" I asked incredulously, "Why would she want a coal miner if she could've had you?"  


The corners of his mouth twitched up in a sad smile as he continued to watch the little girl. I wondered if he was remembering the way her mother looked on their first day of school. "Because when he sings…even the birds stop to listen."  
I wanted to laugh and tell him that of course the birds didn't listen, but at that moment the voices of the teachers called us inside for the start of the day. I gave my father a fleeting hug and hurried inside.  


There were two kindergarten classes, and to my dismay I was placed in the opposite one from the little girl in the red dress. Yet later that day, I found myself behind her in line to a music assembly. I started to talk to her, but a teacher shushed me and told me I had to be silent in line.  


After our main class in the morning, we all were herded into a small, dim room and sat in a circle around a stool where the music teacher sat. She smiled at us, bringing the wrinkles on her haggard face to greater relief. She couldn't have been more that forty, but even at my young age I knew that the unfriendly conditions of our district would wear on us before we reached even our tenth birthdays. Still, she seemed nice enough and led us through some simple activities. Singing our ABC's, some silly song to the same tune about a star, and finally asking us who knew the valley song.  
Music wasn't common in my household as my mother claimed it gave her a headache, so I had no idea. I looked around for who might know it, and to my surprise—and glee—the girl with the red dress's hand shot up in the air. A few other hands straggled limply up in the air after hers, but the teacher seemed hardly to notice. She motioned for the girl to walk forward.  


"What's you name, sweetie?"  


"Katniss," replied the girl with a soft, yet determined voice.  


"Katniss," the teacher echoed, "Would you be willing to sing the class the valley song?"  


The girl—Katniss—looked slightly nervous, but with the skill of a born climber mounted the stool the teacher gestured to and began to sing.  


I hadn't believed my father when he said her father’s voice could make even the birds be silent. Now, I had no doubt that could be true. I swear, no one even breathed as she sang. Her voice was sweet and melodic, obviously still maturing, but to me she sounded like an angel. She didn't focus on any one person as she sang, but more of us all as a group. I didn't know more than two or three of the other kids in the room, but in that moment I felt connected to all of the by our admiration for the girl in the red dress. Her face lit with a joy that I had never experienced in my own home, and I knew then I was a goner. I wanted to talk to her, for her to be my friend. I wanted to see her home, her family, a place that could bring her such joy, even if her father was only a coal miner.  


Of course, as time went on my feelings would change. I would want to be more then just her friend, though that made it even more impossible. Still, whenever I saw her, running around with that boy Gale who every girl seemed to love, or holding her little sister's hand as they traveled through the Seam, I was reminded of that moment I heard her sing. She seemed perfect to me, then. As the years have gone on I've witnessed her temper and her pride, her determination to remain apart from everything and occasionally even her cruelty. All of these make her seemed flawed to everyone else. To me, they make her seem human.  


And she is still perfect to me.

 


	2. Bread

Bread

It had been a particularly slow day at the bakery. The relentless rainfall discouraged anyone from walking the water-logged streets, and already my mother’s patience was stretched thin. We tiptoed around her, trying to placate her anger, but it could only last so long. I had avoided her hand all day, but when early afternoon arrived and we'd only had two customers, there was nothing that could be done. Tensions were at a boiling point, and an explosion could only be held off for so long. I wasn't surprised when moments later I heard her screaming. I figured she was yelling at one of my brothers, or maybe the new errand boy, but the words didn't make sense.  


"What are you doing?" she screeched, her harsh voice echoing throughout the narrow alley our bakery was on. "Get out of here! I am so _tired_ of you worthless brats from the Seam pawing through our trash! Just because you're too stupid to feed yourself doesn't mean you can come steal our food! Now go, or do you want me to get the Peacekeepers?"  


There was no response, and my heart thudded painfully in my chest as I carefully set the loaves of bread I was supposed to be cooking down and went to see who my mother was yelling at. I had a strange premonition I already knew…She had looked so thin lately. Every day at lunch I watched her chewing on some sort of leaves while I guiltily unpacked my meal of bread, meat and on a good day cheese. Every day I wanted to give her all the food I had, but I knew she’d never accept it.   


I peered out from behind my mother's back just as she was carefully replacing the lid to our trash bin. I wanted to cry out at how desperate and emaciated she looked. Her cheeks were hollow and pale, her eyes dull with the hopelessness of too many hungry nights. I knew what it was like to be hungry--there had been bad winters when no one could afford our bread, and eventually we couldn't even afford the materials. For a few days or weeks we got by on the few loaves and cheese we were able to save, but we always made it through. Yes, I had been hungry. But I had never been starving.  


And she was starving.   


She caught me staring at her and there was a faint glint of recognition in her eyes. I opened my mouth to speak, but she looked away quickly and continued backing away. Her legs quivered as she leaned against a tree, sliding down till she was curled at its base. My mother grabbed my arm roughly and dragged me back inside, but the image of Katniss was burned behind my eyes. I'd always seen her as undefeatable; the consummate survivor who would do whatever it took to keep her family alive. But the look she wore as her head sank into her hands clearly said _I give up_.  


I was just about to place the two large loaves of bread back into the oven when suddenly I had an idea. Feigning tripping, I threw both breads into the fire as if by accident. Though my mother wasn’t watching, it still felt too obvious to just place them in the fire. I waited a long moment to make sure they were thoroughly inedible for our customers before fishing both of the out with a pair of tongs. My mother walked up just as I set the second one on the counter and screamed in rage as she saw their blackened crusts.  


" _Idiot boy!"_ she hollered, picking up the loaves in rage and throwing them to the floor. "Are you too worthless to even cook bread?" She swung at me and her hand made contact with my cheek, leaving me reeling backward with tears in my eyes. I knew she was going to hit me before it happened--long years under her abuse had at least taught me when to expect it--but it didn’t make it hurt any less. Biting my lip to keep from releasing any sound of pain, I hurriedly gathered up the loaves before she could throw them away and walked out the back door.  


"Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!"  


I glanced over my shoulder and saw her still watching me, so I began to tear off chunks and toss them in the pig trough. I wished she would leave, because each piece I tore off was one more bite Katniss would not have. Luckily, just a few moments later the front bell sounded, and with a last noise of disgust my mother went to help the customer.   


I felt her eyes on the back of my head, staring intently as I checked back once more to make sure my mother was really gone, then threw the loaf of bread in her direction. I didn't stop long enough to see how close I had made it to her before I chucked the second one and hurried back inside, closing the door tightly behind me. It wasn't for my benefit that I didn't want to get caught, but for hers.  


I smiled slightly as I got back to my work as I imagined what the rest of her evening might be like. She would bring home the bread and her family would crow in delight. Maybe she'd tell them how she got it, maybe she wouldn't. It didn't really matter to me as long as they were all fed. I hoped that spring was coming soon and she would be able to find food easier. I wasn't sure how much longer I could burn bread for her before my mother took drastic measures, but I knew that as long as she needed it, I would.  


I'd hoped that moment would function as some sort of bridge between us. That the gap I just couldn't seem to cross would magically close and she would somehow see me as I saw her. I went to school the next day with a big smile on my face, all for her. Over the course of the day, it slowly disappeared. She didn't make eye contact with me in the hallways. Even more than that, she seemed to go out of her way to avoid me. There was a pain in my chest as I realized that despite everything she wanted no more to do with me than ever.  


I guess that's all I'd have. To love her from a distance. To watch her from the sidelines. To be her silent savior, when the rest of the world turned its back.


	3. Reaping

Reaping

_Reaping Day_. The name alone disgust me. In its original intent, reaping is a farm term, meant for the mundane purpose of cutting down and gathering of crops. Instead, the Capitol has twisted it to mean the cutting down and gathering of our children in order to play their sick games. Another reminder that we are not our own, that they own us, and there is nothing we can do about it.

I don't have much to worry about for myself. At seventeen, I only have seven entries--just two above the minimum for two rough winters. Still, I was much better off than a certain girl from the Seam. She must have her name in that bowl at least twenty times: odds I do not like. Eleven years I’ve watched her struggle, failing over and over to help, to get to know her in any sort of way. The last real contact we had was when I gave her the bread all those years ago. And she’s made it clear she wanted none further. 

I’ve watched her for the past four years as she passes our bakery, wagon full with the meager supplies afforded by the tesserae. It’s obvious she’s signed up for each member of her family, tripling her of chances of being chosen. Every year the odds get worse, and every year I get more and more anxious. As I was pacing nervously last night, my father noticed and tried to calm me down, telling me it will all be okay, that I don’t have enough entries to get chosen. 

I may not. But she does. 

I shake out my arms, trying to clear my thoughts as I walk back to my room. My father has laid out an old suit of his on my bed for me to wear. It’s a nice gesture, but I eye it with disgust. I hate that, like animals, we are made to look nice before we are slaughtered. Still, I know I have no choice, and I slip into the deep brown material, faded slightly over the years and quickly run a comb through my hair. I don’t bother to do anything else; I'm already running a bit behind, and don't want to cause any trouble by being late.

The road in front of the bakery is eerily quiet, as most families have already made it to the stage. I quicken my pace, worried that the Captiol-sent Peacekeepers won’t take kindly to my tardiness. It’s a familiar scene when I reach the town center: boys and girls separated, herded like cattle into their respective age groups. Family members crowded anxiously around, clutching at each other, silently praying, and many already crying.

I glance around briefly for my family, but they’ve already been enveloped by the crowd of worried bystanders. I join the group of boys my age, and give a subdued hello to a few of them. While the Hunger Games may be a cause of revelation in the Capitol, here it is not something to celebrate. We all put on the show we must in order to stay the Capitol's vengeful hand, but tonight our thoughts will go with the two families who will lose a child, and with those children who will lose their lives.

We are all certain that this is the outcome, for District 12 has only ever had two winners, and one of them--our district’s only mentor--is now a roaring drunk. The poor victims of the reaping have no chance, not even a fair fight. They’d have to be exceptional in their own right, because no other help is coming for them. 

I catch sight of Katniss just as the mayor begins to speak, and his words blur together as I take her in. She looks more nervous than I have ever seen her at a reaping, and I realize this is the first year her little sister, Primrose, has been entered into the reaping. Still, even from a distance I know Katniss well enough to be sure there is no way Primrose has her name in there more than once, so she needn’t be so worried. I notice her make eye contact with Gale, and that irrational jealousy flares up in me. I have no right to be jealous, because despite all my wishing I have no claim on her. She looks away quickly though and focuses as Effie Trinket begins to talk.

"Ladies first!" she calls happily. Effie, like the typical Capitol-inhabitant, treats the Games as just that—a game. She doesn't seem to register that twenty-three lives will be lost this year. Her face shows no remorse as she pulls out one of twenty-three names whose future will be cut short. Her smile doesn't fade as she unfolds the piece of paper and reads it to the waiting crowd.

"Primrose Everdeen."

My gaze instantly flickers to Katniss. She looks frozen, as if she can't believe what is happening. For a moment I'm worried she is about to faint, and I begin to push through the crowd of boys to reach her. Out of the corner of my eye I can see her sister, so tiny, about to mount the stage, when Katniss comes back to life.

"Prim!" she cries, the desperate note in her voice clearly audible. "Prim!" Her face says she would fight her way through the crowd in order to get to the stage, but luckily, they part for her. She races for the girl, and pushes her behind her in a heartbreakingly protective gesture. "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

My heart contracts, stomach roiling. _No!_ I want to scream at her. I start trying to push my way through the crowd, but they don’t part for me. Instead, I get shoved back and met with angry glares that at least distract me enough to calm myself down a little. I may have never really had a chance with her, but will this be my last chance to see the girl I loved? My hands claw at my arms as I try to stay my own shouts. Now is not the time, nor the place. 

Effie tries feebly to protest that Katniss has volunteered at the wrong time, but the mayor cuts in.

"What does it matter?" he asks sadly, and I sense a much deeper meaning than just when Katniss can volunteer. What does anything matter, when the Capitol can tear apart everything we love? What does it matter when they kill our children, our friends, our siblings? "What does it matter?" he repeats. "Let her come forward."

Her poor sister Prim is hysterical now as she screams for her sister. "No, Katniss! No! You can't go!" I know Prim. She's a particular favorite of my father and often comes to our bakery to trade some of her homemade cheese. To see her like this is unbearable. I wonder briefly what it is like to love someone that much you would sacrifice your life for them. 

"Prim, let go," she demands, and I can imagine the effort it takes her to keep her strong façade. "Let go!"

Gale pulls Prim off Katniss, and I'm ashamed to admit that in spite of everything I am still jealous of him. How I wish that it were me who she trusted with her sister! Me, that she gave that look to, as if her heart were breaking to see him.

I try to tune out Effie as she banters ridiculously about the honor it is for Katniss to be in the games. Instead, I try to focus on the face of the girl I love, perhaps the last time I will ever see it in person. Finally, when Effie calls for applause, I fold my arms resolutely across my chest, refusing to applaud at this sick twist of events. I expect to be in the minority. Most people wouldn't dare to defy the Capitol this way. Acknowledging what a horrible thing this is, that we do not agree. But to my intense surprise, not a single person brings their hands together, or utters a single noise.

Just as I had in kindergarten, I feel connected to every single other person in this crowd for our admiration of Katniss, the girl in the red dress. It doesn't surprise me when as a whole we raise our three middle fingers of our left hands to our lips, and hold them out to her. Goodbye to someone we love.

This is the kind of response Katniss elicits. I can think of no one else we would have done this for. She doesn't even know, can't even begin to comprehend how we see her. The effect she has on people when she forgets for a moment to scowl, and the hard shell she's worn since her father's death slips.

Now I can see the tears welling up in her eyes that she is trying to hold back. I've somehow made my way close to the stage now, so close I feel as if I could reach out and hold her. I don't hear at all what they are saying anymore. My attention is completely focused on her. I vaguely register faint fury as Haymitch plunges off the stage—he's not even sober enough to protect her!—before Effie has already reached her and in a second time and pulls out the boys name.

"Peeta Mellark," she calls.

My mouth drops open in shock, but I quickly close it. Like Katniss, I must try to remain emotionless. Still, I can't help but smile a little bit as I resist the urge to laugh at the irony of everything. Eleven years I have wanted to talk to her, to get to know her, to have some sort of connection with her. Now, we have a connection that will most likely be the death of both of us.

Fear claws at my stomach, forcing the air out to quickly, in rasping breaths that give away my weakness. _I am going to die._ The words repeat in my mind, beating with my heart. There’s a lump in my throat that I know no words will get past, so I try to calm myself with a resolution. 

 _I will die for her._ I know I have no chance. A baker’s son who’s never even been in a fist fight is hardly a worthy opponent. But she...is strong. She is quick and cunning and resourceful--and cruel, if she has to be. She can win this. And I will do whatever it takes to help her there. After all, dying for someone I love seems like the best way to go. 

My decision calms me as I mount the stage, and I see the recognition flick briefly in her eyes as I come to stand before her. I wonder what she remembers about me. Am I the boy she sees in the hallway of school sometimes? Or am I simply the baker's son? Or—but perhaps this would be hoping too much—does she remember that day with the bread? Does she know how much I would still do for her? That I would—and now see I will—lay down my life for her?

The rest of the ceremony is a blur of dark hair and grey eyes, the warm feel of her tan skin. Last memories that I will take with me to my grave—a grave that is much closer than I had ever thought.

Katniss and I are ushered into the Justice Building, but before I can give any slight word of comfort we are separated into different rooms. They bring in a few of my friends first. It's awkward, to say the least. What do you say to someone for the last time? We exchange a few strained phrases and they tell me they'll see me soon, though we all know it's a lie. They each give me a brief hug and then they are gone. Ten years of friendship and that's my goodbye.

My family is next. My brothers’ usually laughing faces are sober, for once. My oldest brother looks pained. No matter how he's teased us, he always has been protective of us, and now her tussles my hair affectionately. I don't believe he would have volunteered in place of me had he the option, but he still looks wretched. He doesn't give me any lies about seeing me soon, and for that I'm glad.

"Hang in there, kid," he says throatily. He pulls me in for a hug, his arms tight around my shoulders for a brief moment as he whispers in my ear, "Don't lose yourself." And then he's gone.

My other brother's face is clouded with guilt as he walks toward me, leaving me no time to contemplate the parting words I was left with. "Peeta…" he whispers, his voice filled with regret. Yet still I know that given another chance he would have made the same choice.

"Don't worry about it," I say gruffly, patting his shoulder. How did I end up comforting him? "I don't blame you for it. No one volunteers." But we both know the contrary to this statement is sitting in the room right next door. He smiles at me, and I'm glad that will be my last memory of him. He, too, gives me a brief yet emotional hug before leaving the room. At this rate all of my goodbyes will be finished in less than ten minutes.

My father seems the most perilously close to tears of all of them. "Peeta," he says, embracing me tightly. "Son, I'm so proud of you. You try your best, all right son? You're smart, strong, and brave, and don't count yourself out of this game."

I nod, for I wasn't counting myself out. I'm going to stay alive as long as possible, as long as she needs me. I will keep her alive.

My father leaves, too, murmuring something about that "poor girl." I have a hunch he is talking about Katniss, or Prim, more likely. He adores that girl, and I hope in Katniss' and my absences, he will provide them with enough food to get by. I would ask him to, but he is already gone. A huge lump wells up in my throat as I see his profile disappear from view as I realize thiis was the last time I will ever seen my father. Somehow that hurts more than all of the others combined I sink onto the couch, my fingers digging into the plush velvet fabric. It takes me a moment to realize not everyone has left yet. I notice my mother has been sitting on the couch in the corner, watching this whole exchange silently. Vaguely I wonder if in the face of my death she is going to tell me that she loves me, and she's sorry for the way she's treated me. Wishful thinking rarely prevails, however, and her true sentiment is nothing close to the sort. 

She observes me for a long moment. "You know, District 12 might have a winner this year," she says thoughtfully, and for a moment I'm frozen with absolute shock for the faith in me I never knew she had. "She's a fighter, that girl."

I can’t help but laugh, though there is no true humor behind the sound. Of _course_ she wasn't talking about me. Even on my deathbed my mother can’t be bothered to care. I thought it would hurt worse, that she isn’t sad I am dying. Instead, I just feel relief she thinks Katniss could win, too. If she does, it'll all be worth it.

And may the odds be ever in her favor.

 


	4. Opening Ceremony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been away so long! Anyway, with the release of Catching Fire I am back in THG craze and expect more updates :) Also, I am currently writing the Mockingjay version on fanfiction, if you care to check that or my Catching Fire version, my username is operaghost517!

Opening Ceremony

My prep team introduces themselves with many flourishes and squeals of excitement. Cleon, Hermia, and Nestor are all clad in exotic outfits and the strange, surgical mutations so popular in the Capitol as they begin their observation and assessment of their new project: me. Cleon's skin is tinged a light blue, with dark blues swirls covering every visible inch of his body. Combined with his white hair, this gave him the effect of an ocean wave. Hermia, on the other hand, was relatively pure of surgeries, sticking to a simple golden design on her forehead. Her flamboyant outfit makes up for it, however. Nestor shocks me most, for his eyes are a terrifyingly vivid red to match the rubies inlaid into his skin. However, when he smiles his eyes crinkle up, camouflaging their disturbing color, and I can almost pretend he is not from the Capitol, primping me before they kill me.

"Look at those eyes," coos Hermia, turning my chin so that I am facing her. "So blue!"

"And his hair. For District 12, this is quite well taken care of," adds Nestor. I can't decide if that's a compliment. It's rather backhanded, for it did imply a lack of hygiene back home. Although I suppose it _is_ justified.

"But his hands!" cries Cleon unhappily. "Look! Burn marks! Scars! Rough as sandpaper! How am I ever going to make these presentable to the audience?" I draw my hands back from him and fold them under my arms, eyeing him warily. I don't want any Capitol surgery to fix my hands.

"Cleon, there you go again!" an exasperated Hermia tuts. "Peeta, dear, it's okay. He doesn't mean anything by it! We're going to fix you up to be your best self!"

I sigh, frustrated though I know it isn’t really their fault. Still, what makes them think I am not already my best self? I suppose it is the typical Capitol way of thinking, to fix what isn’t broken until it glistens with false luxury. It irks me, too, that she called me dear, though she can’t be more than a few years older than me. I clench my eyes shut for a moment, knowing I can’t show any frustration. Besides, I can’t blame them for how they were raised. I’m struck with the realization that I somehow pity _them_ , though I am the one walking into my death while they will watch from the comfort of their homes.

The prep team begins their tedious work as I am lost in thought, giggling and chatting the entire time. I try to join in occasionally, but mostly I am focused on how I am going to keep Katniss alive. I'm forced into multiple baths, most of which are filled with unfamiliar substances. I'm slightly wary of the strange color and repugnant smell of the last one, but in the end I slip into the strange liquid, and am a bit surprised to find the overall effect quite nice. Eventually they lead me out of the tub and into a plush chair, where they gather around me with their various--slightly intimidating--tools. No one bothers to hand me a robe--apparently nakedness doesn’t phase anyone here, though it makes me slightly uncomfortable. They all examine me a moment, until Nestor suddenly makes a noise as if he has had an idea, and gets to work combing and cutting my hair with fervor. As I watch the strands fall into light piles around my feet, I wonder if there will be anything left. 

Cleon attacks every little scar and burn on every single portion of my body with a thick lotion until my skin is as soft as a baby's. Hermia, meanwhile, shaves my face with a razor unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. When I ask her what it’s for, she explains that it will keep me from growing any facial hair in the arena, noting that stubble is “so out” in the Capitol right now.   I have to hide my face to keep from smiling, though I’m not sure why I find that so amusing. 

When—at last—they finish, and I am primped and polished I feel quite unlike myself, they finally hand me a thin robe and tell me to wait for my stylist. It doesn’t take long for her to arrive. I’ve barely had a chance to take a seat and contemplate how Katniss is doing when the door creaks open and my stylist walks in. She's rather tall, almost matching my height. It doesn't look gangly on her, though, merely graceful. Her white-blonde hair is pulled back into a tight bun and her deep brown eyes regard me thoughtfully. 

"Hello, Peeta. I'm Portia," she says, her voice gentle and friendly. I greet her politely, though wearily. "Stand up, please." I do as she asks, pulling my robe a little tighter around me. She circles me, eyes scanning up and down as a small smile begins to play at her full lips. "Yes…I think this is going to work very well.”

I pause, waiting for an explanation, but none is forthcoming. “Um, what will work well?” I ask.

"Oh! You're costume, of course! My partner, Cinna, and I think we've come up with quite a show-stopper."

Cinna. That must be Katniss' stylist. I hopes he is as mild as Portia seems. I have a feeling Katniss’ nerves are more frayed than she’s letting on, and the last thing she needs is some beetle-eyed stylist playing dress up with her. 

"Basically, we're all tired of seeing District 12 dressed as coal miners. Very overdone." I smile, completely in agreement, despite my complete lack of fashion understanding. "So, instead of focusing on the miners, we are focusing on the coal." She begins to pull out my costume and in well-practiced motions helps me get dressed. Trusting her implicitly, I follow her lead and try not to register what I am putting on before I can see it completely. 

“What do you think?” Portia asks when, several minutes later, I am fully dressed.

I regard myself for a moment. The outfit is rather simple. A black unitard that leaves nearly every inch of my body covered in a thick layer of fabric. Laced up to my knees are a pair of shiny black boots unlike anything I've ever worn. Simple, and truthfully, a bit boring. However, the one thing that I suppose will catch some attention is the cape and headpiece. Both are made of streams of orange, yellow, and red. I understand now that the concept is the burning of the coal, but I still don't see how this is the show-stopper Portia claims it to be.

"It's…great, Portia," I say, wanting to be polite.

Portia looks gleeful, despite my lackluster praise. "I haven't even told you the best part. The part that's going to make you two _unforgettable._ " She fingers the material of my cape gingerly, a grin lighting up her features. "We are going to light this on fire."

About an hour later, my panic still hasn't worn off. I'm waiting for Katniss before the ceremony begins, and I can't help pacing back and forth in worry. Despite Portia's assurances that the fire is synthetic and won’t harm us, I can't help but be frightened. How am I supposed to keep Katniss if we’re both burned to a crisp before the games even begin?

She enters with her stylist and team, dressed in an identical costume as mine and with an identical mask of worry. As everyone congratulates each other on a job well done, Katniss manages to find her way to me before we are herded to the Remake Center in preparation for the ceremonies.

"What do you think?" she whispers, close to my ear. "About the fire?"

I set my jaw into a hard line as I answer. "I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine."

"Deal," she says. It takes a great deal of effort for me to hold back a smile, though I can't exactly place why. "I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what they said," she continues, "but I don't think he considered this angle."

At the mention of his name, I realize I haven’t seen our illustrious mentor all day, despite the importance of tonight’s events. "Where is Haymitch anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?"

"With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame."

I stare at her for a shocked moment. Katniss, the girl I've seen laugh maybe twice, just made a joke in the face of our—well, hopefully just my—imminent deaths. Suddenly I'm laughing, and the feel warms my entire body. As strange as it may sound, there is no one I would rather share this experience with than her. She looks startled for a moment, then joins in my laughter heartily. Maybe its just the nerves making her laugh, but I’m irrationally happy I’ll have at least one good moment with her.

We're cut off by the sound of music, undeniably announcing the start of the opening ceremony. We are ushered onto an open-backed chariot pulled by horses matching the color of our costumes. It’s hard to stay balanced, and I’m suddenly unconvinced either of us are even going to make it to the games: between burning and falling out of this carriage, the odds are definitely not in our favor. 

We wait nervously as the other districts begin their march, and I’m not sure if these extra moments are a blessing or a curse. Just as District 11 pulls out into the audience, Cinna shows up with a torch. A lit torch. I swallow nervously as his arm bends, the tails of our capes catching instantaneously. My stomach clenches in panic as I wait for the heat to reach me, but I only feel a pleasant, tickling sensation "It works," he sighs, relieved. If I’d had another moment I might have been worried that he sounded relieved. He tilts Katniss' chin up kindly. "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!"

I plaster the biggest, most Capitol-worthy smile I can muster on my face and focus my eyes on the entry. Katniss interrupts my focus with a question. "What's he saying?" I turn to Katniss to see where she is looking, but don't make it any farther than her face for a moment. The flames atop her head reflect beautifully in her bright, gray eyes, and cast mysterious shadows on her face. She is radiant.

I shake my head, clearing my vision as I look for what she is pointing at. I see Cinna yelling something at us, and see him hold his own hands together. "I think he said for us to hold hands," I say. Warily, I take her hand, and Cinna gives us a thumbs up. She doesn’t look at me, but her fingers curl slightly around mine.

I hear the crowds' intake of shocked breath as we enter the stadium. Their cheers roar, twice as loud tan for any other district, and I know we are a hit. I wave, smile, do all that is expected of me, but out of the corner of my eye I watch Katniss. I am fixated on her warm hand in mine, fingers gripping me so tightly her knuckles are white. I see her slowly gaining confidence, blowing kisses at the crowd. Their screams are deafening, and for the first time, I feel hope.

They love her. She will get sponsors. No one will want to see the girl who was on fire die. As for the boy who was on fire, well, he will do whatever it takes to keep her alive.

When we reach the City Circle, her grip loosens as if she is about to let go. I can't bear it if she does. "No, don't let go of me," I beg, tightening my grip. "Please. I might fall out of this thing." It's an flimsy lie; I simply need to feel her there beside me, but I hope she can't tell.

"Okay," she replies, but I can tell she is cautious now. I wish, as I so often did, that I knew what went on in her head. What is she thinking now? Why is her grip still slack, when all I went to do is hold her tighter? She has no idea what it's like for me, right now. Eleven years I have waiting for a chance to be close to her like this. Eleven years I've wanted to hold her hand. Now that I finally have that chance, I'm lucky if I even have eleven days left in my life.

My throat tightens as for the first time I truly appreciate how little of life I have left. I'll never see my father again, my brothers, my friends. I'll never frost a cake and forget everything else in the world. I'll never wake up to the smell of freshly baked bread. I'll never have a toasting ceremony at my wedding. I'll never hold my own child in my arms.

I have a few days before the games. A few days left to talk to her, look at her, listen to her. Just a few days to fill my memory with enough thoughts of her to last until my death. I know I want her to be my last thought, because it is for her that I am going to die.

"Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky there," I say, my voice husky.

"It didn't show," she responds casually. "I'm sure no one noticed."

"I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you. You should wear flames more often," I say, "They suit you." I smile at her, hoping maybe to get a smile back like I did earlier today.

Instead, she surprises even me, standing tiptoe and kissing me on the cheek.

_Thus, with a kiss, I die._


	5. Interview

Interview

The past few days have been endless, hours melting together until I have no idea how long it’s been since I said goodbye to District 12. Training Training is brutal, mentally and physically, though at least their is some benefit to it. My last few days in the Capitol have been spent in her company, since Haymitch ordered us to present ourselves as a pair. I tried not to let it bother me, the way she looked uncomfortable as he said it. Still, it does hurt, though I know its unfair to her. 

I told Haymitch my plan, though not the truth behind it. But, somehow, I think he knows. He’s strangely astute for someone who drinks more than he breathes. Which is why I know he will help me. There can only be one victor. And watching Katniss, I know she can survive. She was a natural at every station, even putting a few of the Careers to shame. 

Now, however, is not the moment to be caught up in her prowess. The eyes of the Capitol on us, I feel my palms sweating with nerves, though I keep my face composed, content. I hear Katniss' shallow breath next to me, and see her fingers digging into the palm of her hand. I wish I could take her hand, smooth out those fingers and hold them in mine, but she’d never allow it. Besides, it’s just a few minutes now, before she knows. 

She looks stunning, though in a different way than I am used to. Her stylist is really something of a magician. He somehow manages to glamorize her in a way the Capitol adores while keeping her rooted in District 12. Again she is dressed as if she is on fire, though less conspicuously than the flames we both wore in the Opening Ceremonies. Tiny jewels reflect in the spotlight, giving the impression of flames while still being subtle, and I find myself fixated on their glow before my eyes reach her face. 

She won't even look at me. I can almost _see_ the effort as she gazes anywhere but my direction. I know she is livid, because I unceremoniously asked to be coached separately. Guilt still racks my mind, but I couldn’t tell her, not without ruining everything. Besides, she never would have gone through with it, not for me. She’s probably glad, anyway, that she doesn’t have to act like we’re a team anymore. 

It doesn’t change the fact that I want so much to talk to her. To whisper a joke about the other tributes, or a comforting word to calm the nerves written so clearly on her face.

Though each interview lasts a full three minutes, and there are twenty-two before us, it seems like only moments before Katniss is standing and straightening her skirt before approaching Caesar on shaky legs. I didn’t realize how little distracted I was by my thoughts, and I’m slightly angry at my lack of attention to the other tributes--I wanted to have some idea of my competition before getting into the arena. I don’t have long to berate myself, however, as Caesar greets Katniss warmly as her interview begins. 

"What's impressed you the most since you arrived here?" he asks jovially, then putting the microphone out to her in eager anticipation of her response. 

A good twenty seconds passes before she is able to answer. Twenty seconds of silence giving way to titters in the crowd as I bite my lip to keep from yelling to her, clench my chair to keep from running to her. 

"The lamb stew," she replies. There is a moment’s shocked silence, then Caesar laughs heartily, joined in by appreciative chuckles from the crowd. 

I smile, though not to the extent I feel--none of the other tributes even cracked a grin, and I don’t want to stand out. She never ceases to amazing me, and it’s moments like this that make her so remarkable. Every once in a while, her guard unexpectedly drops, and she says something delightfully honest. It’s these moments that I wait for, that i cherish. 

The rest of the interview continues without a hitch, as Katniss responds with charm to an appreciative crowd. When she twirls, showing off her beautiful gown to the delight of the audience, I see how well she can play this side of the games. This giggling, twirling girl is nothing like the one I knew back in District 12, but she is exactly what the Capitol wants.

Toward the end of her interview, Caesar raises a hand, calling for silence among the vast crowd. He looks at her somberly, placing a hand over hers, as if in a show of sympathy. 

"Let's go back then, to the moment they called your sisters name at the reaping," he says. "And you volunteered. Can you tell us about her?"

I see the pain flicker briefly across her face before she composes herself once again. "Her name's Prim. She's just twelve. And I love her more than anything."

The entire audience—and probably all of Panem—was utterly silent, transfixed by Katniss' words.

"What did she say to you? After the reaping?"

Katniss' face is so heartbreakingly free of emotion, but there is a clear effort written on it as she forces out the next words. "She asked me to try really hard to win."

"And what did you say?"

Katniss stands taller, and suddenly the giggling girl of just moments ago is gone, replaced by a formidable woman. "I swore I would."

 _Yes, yes, yes!_ I want to cry out. She will come home. It will all be worthwhile. Prim will see her sister again. Panem will have their darling girl who was on fire. I know she will grieve for me, if only for the fact that we are from the same district. She will give the proper condolences and maybe she will even truly be sorry, but she will get over it. And I can live with that, if it means she will live. If it means she will be happy.

The buzzer sounds, and Katniss is ushered offstage while I'm ushered on. In the roughly ten steps it takes me to reach Caesar, I compose myself and fix my face with a huge grin, as if there isn't anything I'd rather be doing than standing on this stage next to Caesar.

"So, Peeta," Caesar begins, and I force myself to listen closely to his words. Haymitch, in a surprising show of sobriety, prepped me for this interview in detail, and I know exactly what my approach will be. "What's your impression of the Capitol? Are you as impressed by the lamb stew as Katniss?"

I chuckle appreciatively at his joke before I answer. "Well, I'm a baker's son back home in District Twelve," I say. "So the bread is much more impressive to me. In fact, I was just telling Katniss the other day how much the tributes are like the breads from their districts." This is, of course, a complete lie, for Katniss and I have hardly spoken in the past few days, and certainly not about bread. "See, bread from District One…." I go on to describe the similarities of the bread and the tributes, much to the amusement of the audience, though I’m really just stalling. Still, the audience is roaring with laughter by the time I finish, for which I’m exceedingly grateful.

Caesar, who had laughed the loudest of all, continues on his questions without a hitch. "So we know how different District Twelve is, but what's the biggest change for you coming to the Capitol?"

"The shower!" I respond without hesitation. "There are so many buttons and dials, it took me twenty minutes just to figure out how to get the water running the first time I used it!" I grin sheepishly. "And just this morning, after I thought I had it figured out, I press a button and a big pink cloud puffs out. Tell me, do I still smell like roses?"

Caesar bends his head toward me and takes a big sniff. He lets out a guffaw. "You sure do!" he cries, and the stadium rings with laughter. "Reminds me of my grandmother, must say."

I laugh, pretending to be insulted. "What a way to send me into the Arena, Caesar! 'Oh, there's the boy that smells like Caesar's grandmother!'"

We're both laughing now, and even though mine is forced, it still feels good to have a moment where I’m not thinking about what happens next. He clasps an arm around my shoulder affectionately and tells me not to worry, he’s sure I'll be remembered for more than that. I tell him then that now he'll smell like roses too, since his arm is around me. He laughs, and we do a bit where we take turns sniffing each other, which the audience absolutely loves.

I eye the clock, figuring that if Caesar doesn’t bring up the subject soon I’m going to have to do it myself, when, thankfully, Caesar asks, "So, Peeta. Do you have a nice young lady waiting for you back home?"

I bite my lip and try to look a little pained as I shake my head.

"Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?" says Caesar.

With a deep sigh, I respond. "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping." This is the one part of the interview where I completely telling the truth, and I feel very vulnerable.

Still, this is popular with the crowd. They can relate to my unrequited love. "She have another fellow?" asks Caesar sympathetically. I can't help that irrational flare of jealousy as I remember Gale helping Katniss onto the stage at the reaping.

"I don't know, but a lot of boys like her," I reply. I chance a quick look at Katnis, but I can’t tell anything from her expression.

"So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?" Caesar smiles, proud of himself that he has solved this problem for me.

"I don't think it's going to work out. Winning…won't help in my case." No. It would only destroy everything I've ever loved.

"Why ever not?" he asks, astounded.

I take a deep breath, bracing myself as a blush rises to my cheek. I dip my head slightly, embarassed and nervous. These are the words that are going to change everything. These are the words that could save her. And I have to say them right. I wish there was a way for her to believe them, for her to know that it’s all true, but I can’t worry about that right now. The most I can hope is that the Capitol will believe me, and see her as I see her. As someone worth saving.

"Because…" I stammer, "Because…she came here with me."

There is a moment of shock before everything explodes. The crowd erupts in sounds of despair. The cameras all focus on Katniss, but I refuse to let myself look at her. I don't want to see the expression on her face. I don't want to see the confirmation of my fears, that my love really is completely and helplessly unrequited. Instead, I focus on the ground in front of me, looking heartbroken. It’s not hard. 

Caesar grips my shoulder tightly. "Oh, that is a piece of bad luck," he says, sounding truthfully pained.

"It's not good," I choke out.

"Well, I don't think any of us can blame you. It'd be hard not to fall for that young lady." I nod in agreement, her face flashing before my eyes. "She didn't know?"

"Not until now."

Caesar turns toward the audience, his grip on my arm still tight. "Wouldn't you love to pull her back out here and get a response?" I look up suddenly. Can they do that? The screams of the audience begging for just that seem to think so. "Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen's time has been spent." I breathe a sigh. I'm not sure if it's from disappointment or relief, though. "Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours."

I give a wave as I depart the stage, and the crowd cries out in a deafening din. I can feel the glares of the other tributes as I make my way past them. They are angry, because my confession has consumed the audience, wiping their interviews off the map. I don't get to see what Katniss thinks, though, for we are separated by a few feet that seem like the expanse of the world.

When we are finally back into the Training Center, on the twelfth floor, Katniss and I are finally alone. She purposefully avoided me the entire way back, and I expected her to keep it up until we were both in our separate rooms. Needless to say, her reaction shocks. I barely step out of the elevator when she shoves me with all her might, fists slamming into my chest. She’s stronger than I had given her credit for, and I stagger back and crash into a vase filled with fake flowers. The glass shatters on the floor and my hands meet the mess, cutting deep into my palms. I kneel on the ground where I fell, gasping for breath as I look at my hands, which are now bleeding profusely.

"What was that for?" I demand.

"You had no right!" she shouts, furious. "No right to go saying those things about me!" Her words sting, though I know its irrational. I had expected this all along, that she wouldn’t return my feelings, but her rage is piercing.\

I'm saved the trouble of replying, for which I am grateful because I don't know if I could force out words without betraying my emotion, because at that moment the elevator opens again. Effie, Haymitch, Cinna and Portia walk out.

"What's going on?" Effie asks, aghast. "Did you fall?" She rushes over to me and with the help of Cinna lift me to my feet. I try to avoid getting blood on her pristine suit, but don't entirely succeed.

"After she shoved me," I say gruffly.

"Shoved him?" Haymitch whips around toward Katniss, a dangerous edge in his voice.

"This was your idea, wasn't it?" she demands, slightly hysterical. "Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?"

Ah, so this is what she thought. "It was my idea," I reply casually as I pull out the pottery from my lacerated hands. "Haymitch just helped me with it."

"Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!" she cries, still not understanding what I am trying to do for her.

"You _are_ a fool," Haymitch replies disgustedly, and despite the fact that Katniss just assualted me, I want to ask him to refrain from behind so harsh. "Do you think he hurt you? That boy just gave you something you could never achieve on your own."  
  
"He made me look weak!"

"He made you look desirable!" Haymitch had helped me refine this one particular point. My idea was simply to show the Capitol that I love her, so that they would forgive me for what I plan to do in the arena. And, some small part of me--however silly it was--couldn’t bear the idea of her never knowing how I felt. Haymitch had pointed out that by me confessing my love, the Capitol wouldn’t be able to keep from loving her, either. And the Capitol’s approval is vital in the Games. "And let's face it," he continued, "you can use all the help you an get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You're all they're talking about. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!"

 _Star-crossed_. That one word takes all my dreams and tears them to shreds. She can't be mine unless there is no possible way it could last.

"But we're not star-crossed lovers!" she protests. Again, a stab of pain shoots through me.

"Who cares?" Haymitch insists, pinning her to the wall. I take a step forward to keep him from hurting her, but Cinna holds me back. "It's all a big show. It's all how you're perceived." Haymitch's words ring undeniably true. "The most I could say about you after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you're a heartbreaker." Yes, she is, and it's my heart that's breaking. Breaking as surely and as quickly as my life will soon end. At least I won’t have to deal with the pain of that. I'll be long dead before she could tell me in so many words that she doesn't feel the same way. "Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?"

She shoves Haymitch a way, looking slightly disgusted, but mollified.

Cinna leaves my side to go to her. "He's right, Katniss."

She doesn't look convinced. "I should have been told, so I didn't look so stupid." 

"No, your reaction was perfect. If you'd known, it wouldn't have read as real."

I say the one thing that has been weighing on my mind ever since she reacted so poorly to my revelation. "She's just worried about her boyfriend." I toss away the vase in anger. It’s childish, but I can’t help it.

She blushes, basically solidifying what I had thought, and replies fiercely, "I don't have a boyfriend."

"Whatever," I say, trying to pass as nonchalant. After all, the Games are all about appearances. "But I bet he's smart enough to know a bluff when he sees it. Besides, _you_ didn't say you loved _me_. So what does it matter?"

I'm contradicting myself inside my head. It matters because now I know her feelings,  and I know they aren't the same. Not that I ever thought they would be. It doesn't change how anything will turn out, and it doesn't change how I feel about her in the slightest. It just hurts. It eclipses the sting of my hands, or the ache where her fists made contact with my chest. More than the fact that I'll never go back to District Twelve. 

Katniss turns to Portia, the only one who can be really objective in this. "After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him too?" All the fury is gone from her voice, and she sounds like a lost child.

"I did," Portia says kindly, "The way you avoided looking at the cameras, the blush."

"You're golden, sweetheart." Haymitch adds. "You're going to have sponsors lined up around the block."

She turns to me, not quite meeting my gaze. "I'm sorry I shoved you."

I shrug, merely just to have something other to do with my arms than wrap her in them. "Doesn't matter," I reply. "Although it's technically illegal."  
  
"Are your hands okay?"

"They'll be all right." I try to give a little smile, but she looks away too quickly. My hands will be all right, I’m sure. I just wish I could say the same for my heart.

Later that night, I sat on my bed staring blankly at the wall in front of me, when the door opened with a gentle breeze. An Avox walks in, carrying a container of something. She has a pleasant face, rather plump with white-blonde hair pulled back tightly. There are lines around her eyes and on her forehead, but still she smiles at me as she walks toward me. She gestures toward the container and then picks up my hands, running a callused finger over the scabs that have already formed.

I understand her meaning. She wants to heal my hands with some special concoction of the Capitol's. With a sharp gesture I pull my hands out of her grasp. "No!" I say hurriedly. She gives me a questioning glance. _Why?_ She mimes.

"Because…" I can't really explain to her. Why shouldn't I want her to heal my injury? I suppose it's just that…it seems like nothing is left to me anymore. My heart belongs to Katniss, and I don’t begrudge her for that--she had no say in the matter. But my mind doesn't belong to me anymore, either, for I can't ever speak the things I wish because of the implications they could have for me and Katniss. My body has already been shaped into some sort of model of the Capitol, and I just don't want to give them this last little bit. Growing up with two older brothers, I've always treasured my injuries as a way to prove how tough I am. They would have laughed at me for submitting to an easy way out of pain.

I've already lost so much, and I'm petrified of losing myself in these games. These scars remind me of who I am, and where I come from. I don't come from the life where injuries can be healed by a simple ointment, and I'm glad I don't. The Avox woman obviously doesn't understand this, however, since I can't voice at all how I am feeling to her. She smiles at me as if to say _It's okay_ , and proceeds to heal my hands. I watch her in horror and fascination as my skin bubbles up and smooths out.

I sigh in resignation. Perhaps this was the truth of the matter, I think as I leave my room and head out to the roof. Perhaps there is simply no way to remain unchanged by this. I've watched tributes go from demure children to horrifying killing machines. I can only hope my fate isn't like that.

I've already accepted my death. There is no part in me wishing or hoping to survive. Instead, my last wish is simply to die as myself. I want to die as the boy with the bread, not the boy who was on fire.

 


End file.
